


Son of a Saviour

by Navia (TheNavia)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anger Management, Bittersweet, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Damian Wayne Has Issues, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne-centric, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Health Issues, Minor Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain, Past Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Dick Grayson, Sick Jason Todd, Sick Tim Drake, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, Wayne Manor, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNavia/pseuds/Navia
Summary: Damian is a realist, a sceptic even, he knows what exists - what doesn't exist. His new place in his father's family and Manor might end up breaking that all down and forcing him to question more than just his sanity.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Esther-Channah from ffn.net for help with this fic. Updates should be every Monday, I hope you enjoy.

In the gardens of Wayne Manor, there was a tree of interest to Damian. It was an old thing, trunk sturdy and leaning towards the Manor as it brushed the sky, and it was tall. Really tall, Damian couldn’t stress it enough. He’d been on the roof of the Manor once, and even from there the tree had seemed like a titan above him. It was certainly not infinite; he could see where it gave way to the sky if he stood far back enough, but even then something in the way it curved in on itself seemed to obscure quite how high it stood; where exactly the leaves ended and the clouds they seemed to brush began. 

In his short time at the Manor, the ten-year-old had spent most of it amid the leaves of that tree. It seemed near purpose-built for him; branches close enough to never be without a hold but spaced out so as to give him the challenge he craved, each one clearly ready to bear his weight without proving unwieldy should he choose to take it as a souvenir of the climb. For a boy like Damian, the combination had proven seduction enough and each morning since arrival, he’d left following breakfast and taken to the tree to remain until tea as evening set into his bones. 

To nobody’s surprise, the tree was where Damian was then. He’d not climbed far – ten, twenty minutes up at a slow pace, not even to the height of the roof of the Manor – and he’d taken his throne amidst the leaves. He’d found the spot on his second climb, three thick branches that twisted into an admirable seat almost concealed from the Manor but still leaving him able to watch the goings-on if he chose to. It was more or less level with the third floor and made an excellent spot to spend his hours in solitude. At that time, it also served as a very effective nook to attempt to call his mother, shielded from the prying ears of the Manor walls.

He knew what his father had told him had happened to her – that she languished in jail and would forevermore. He didn’t believe a word of it. He knew a woman with his mother’s resources would, even if one day condemned, hire good enough lawyers to keep her from bars for the few weeks he’d stayed there. He wasn’t the child his father seemed to think, and he didn’t need to be sheltered from the truth. His mother’s voicemail ringing out for the umpteenth time told him enough; he was there because she didn’t want him anymore. His face remained resolute, and he didn’t begin to ask himself what he’d done wrong, it was still too early for that. 

He rang again, anyway, and began another detailed description of his exploits since his arrival. Because there was nothing better to do; because he wanted to know it was her choice not to hear what he said; because he had to tell somebody all the things in his head – it hardly mattered. He thought he might be telling the tree as much as his phone, revelling in the mild thrill that he rested in the arms of a living being, that life could surround him so thoroughly – it had always seemed so distant before. 

Given how little he’d actually done, he’d begun to make up the tales he told her. Stories of his father praising his right hook and his eldest ‘brother’ taking him to see Gotham Old Town. Small things, things she wouldn’t notice amiss unless she’d been inside the house with him, short periods of interaction that were all the same something he sorely lacked at the Manor. It was okay: he’d always been used to being alone, he could handle this. Just one more challenge before he became his mother’s Alexander.

Lost in his own words, he didn’t notice as the words drifted to a darker place. The wrench in his chest had been a full toolbox since he’d arrived, and every voicemail piled upon hammers and spanners and – his mother's voice telling him to say what he meant, do away with silly metaphors, rang in his head, and he straightened his posture without thinking; eyes losing the dampness they definitely never had. He hung up without saying goodbye.

From far away, he thought he heard his name being called. It occurred to him that the sun was near setting, and he ought to go into the Manor for tea, but he could see no faces peering from the windows who could have been beckoning him. It was a lot quicker to scale down the tree than up, branches almost like a winding staircase down the old trunk, and he was standing beneath the shadow of the manor once again within minutes. 

When he tried it, the door was open – a relief, his father seemed irritated whenever he had to open the door to Damian. He found the vestibule to be far cooler than the tepid late summer dusk that had bathed the garden. Something in the broad stone floors always seemed to chill the Manor, and he found himself hungry for the warmth of Infinity Island he’d been distanced from. He thought if he told his father he might turn the heat up, but it wouldn’t do to put the man out of his way like that, not for some pathetic weakness of Damian’s that wasn’t even worth the thought he put to it. 

He’d never been taken around the Manor – too many rooms to bother, his father had told him – but he’d learnt at very least the route to the dining room in his time there, the lesser one where they’d eat ‘family’ meals. He didn’t think the greater one saw much use; he didn’t mention it. It seemed he was near perfectly on time. As he slammed the door open, he saw his ‘brothers’ already in place around the heavy table, seemingly waiting for Damian’s father. The eldest of his father’s wards, Richard Grayson, or ‘Dick’ as he insisted on being called, sat to the right of the table’s head. The younger, Timothy ‘Tim’ Drake, sat beside him, leaning into the eldest’s shadow, as always. Twenty and sixteen years old, respectively. In each place that people would be sitting, a still-steaming portion of roast dinner sat on a fine plate, lacking any sort of smell Damian thought it ought to have.

Damian knew his place by then, and sat opposite Drake, watching how the boy’s vacant eyes shifted as Damian moved through his field of view, as if he’d been caught unaware despite Damian’s rather unsubtle entrance. Grayson’s eyes made no such shift, they were as firmly fixed on the space opposite him as they always were, despite it never being so much as touched. Damian cleared his throat, and sharply kicked Drake’s knee beneath the table when it failed to get a reaction, finally getting their attention as Drake hissed a curse under his breath; eyebrows furrowing.

“Why is the demon brat still with us?” he asked in a near growl, bringing his hand to Grayson’s arm like a toddler seeking comfort from his mother. Grayson released a long-suffering sigh.  
“Damian will be staying with us for the foreseeable future – make him welcome, Tim. Damian, don’t provoke your brother, or you may see some of the privileges you enjoy being revoked – wandering Manor grounds, for instance. Are we clear?” Drake nodded distantly and Damian scoffed at the empty threat he’d heard a dozen times that week, just as a new voice entered the mix,  
“Parenting again, Dick? Thought that was my job.” Damian’s father’s words were light, but an undercurrent of anger ran beneath them. Damian and Drake fell silent and still, Drake’s hand falling to his side, allowing Dick to take the conversation alone.

“Ah, you’re finally here. Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s still plenty of parenting them left for you. Say, when was the last time you took a moment to actually get around to that?” Bruce didn’t answer, and Damian ignored the bitter thought that Dick was allowed to provoke all he liked, as his father took his place at the head of the table. Damian felt strangely conspicuous, the empty seat between them making his father’s presence seem somehow more nauseatingly suffocating than if they’d just sat beside each other. 

Bruce picking up his cutlery acted as a prompt for the rest of them to eat, and Damian found himself dreading every bite of the tasteless meal, as he so often did those days. Dick made appreciative sounds though, and Damian took the hint to thank his father for the food – pretend not to notice that his father’s eyes didn’t even shift to meet him, let alone acknowledge his words. 

“So, Tim, how are you feeling?” Dick asked, his voice a parody of chipperness as if his eyes weren’t focused on Damian’s father.   
“I’m – I’m well. I’ve been working on a – well, it’s not very important. But it’s going – uh – it’s going well.” Drake paused and nodded as if assessing his own response.  
“Really?” Dick’s voice was somehow higher, the lilt even more exaggerated, “I think you’ve been looking a bit peaky, Tim. Earlier, I was worried you might faint – seemed awfully weak if, I’m being honest. Think I ought to take him to the hospital, Bruce? Don’t suppose you’d lend me a car to drive there – to the hospital, that is.” His voice had raised by the end of his sentence, and Damian had stopped taking monotonous bites of mash, staring at his fork as he let it lay still on his plate. 

“There is nothing wrong with Tim, isn’t that right lad?” Damian’s heart went out to his ‘brother’, it really did, if he wasn’t so intolerable he might even stretch to sympathy. All eyes turned to the pale boy and he was caught in a stutter as he struggled for a neutral response. Eventually, he just nodded, looking vaguely nauseous as he fixed his gaze on the ever-empty space and made a vague affirmative sound. Damian’s father seemed satisfied, turning his attention back to a disgruntled Grayson as the eldest spoke again. 

“Denial doesn’t solve anything. Tim is ill; you know he is. You’d even see if you bothered to look.”  
“I know no such thing; he’s said he’s fine – nothing wrong with trusting the boy to look after himself.”  
A sharp baulk. “Me, not trusting him? Remember who you’re talking to, Bruce.”

His father’s voice took a sharp turn. “I’m talking to my insolent son, who is failing to respect my authority on the treatment of my own damn children.” He stood, and the façade of a meal together fell away. “This is not a conversation for the children’s ears. We can finish this in my study.” He turned on his heel and paced to the door. His eyes shifted back when he reached it, his hand resting on the doorknob. He was stoic as Grayson placed a kiss on Drake’s hair, obnoxious in the possession it implied, ruffling Damian’s hair before he left through the door. His father followed, not sparing the others a goodbye. A familiar itch worked its way into Damian’s chest.

Drake and Damian let a beat pass before they made brief eye-contact and fell into habit without exchanging further words; Drake clearing the plates as Damian began to draw the curtains to the room. They were the heavy sort and tall enough that he had to use the hooked pole they kept at hand, so Drake was ready to leave before Damian finished.

“Demon Brat.” His voice was carefully neutral, and Damian didn’t spare him a response; allowing the slam of the door to mark their parting for him. He privated the thought that the pallor of Drake’s skin really wasn’t what it ought to be but shut himself down with the reminder that was a good thing. His mother’s words echoed in his head; Drake was nothing but competition for his father’s attention and not to be underestimated. If Drake was feigning vulnerability there was sure to be a reason and Damian could not let himself fall for it. 

He allowed himself to focus on the itch within him. He knew what it was; the same compulsion that struck whenever his mother hired a new tutor. He knew well enough to follow the itch; he knew the consequences when he didn’t. Each world carried with it an order; a set of behaviours for Damian to comply with and a set of punishments when he fell short. To not know in advance – well, he wouldn’t make that mistake twice. It had been enough to shy away from the ‘family’ so far, but his mother’s space was growing cold already, and the looming threat of permanence demanded action.

The last shift of red velvet cast the already gloomy room into complete darkness and he brushed his hand across the rough wall as he made his way to the exit through the cast of shadow. One door, another, a turn, one more door, and – his palms felt the solid wood of the door his father had left through, and he swept across for the brass knob, twisting it quickly before the chill of the metal could broach his skin. He pushed gently, hoping it was as smooth as most of the doors in the building seemed. Luck seemed to be in his favour, and he found himself in a hallway, dimly lit by lanterns placed sparingly across the grey wallpaper. The floor was carpeted, a deep red, and against one wall there were half a dozen doors, each across from a portrait – vague faces, almost infuriatingly bland, seemingly lacking any distinction at all. 

He cursed in his throat as he realised he didn’t know which door to go through; he’d never been to his father’s study – his pursuit might still be in vain. He shuffled to the closest one infuriatingly slow to avoid his footsteps betraying him, and he pressed his ear against the thinnest panel – ever so soft. A minute or so passed, excruciating, and he was about to shuffle to the next door, convinced the first did not hold his father, when he heard a cut-off shout – glottal and short – from somewhere within the fourth door in the row. 

He forgot himself as he rushed to his new destination. A squeak of the floorboards. A sharp reprimand conjured itself in his mother’s voice and he pulled himself back to form, stilling outside the door. He held his breath, and let a moment pass – one, two – nobody had noticed; he relaxed his shoulders. There were definitely people behind, though he wasn’t sure if they were in the first room behind the particular door. They didn’t seem to be arguing so much anymore. 

He continued to listen for several more seconds, and decided there was almost certainly another room between himself and the men – should he enter? The sounds were too muffled for the door to be open, but there was no limit to the number of ways it could go wrong. His shoulders raised again as he steeled himself; he was an Al-Ghul, he could do this. The doorknob was brass, like the dining hall, but it was less cool; almost hot in fact, and he allowed himself to revel in the warmth he drew from it as he gently opened his way to the room.

The inside seemed almost intentionally generic, to what Damian imagined an upper-class Western study to be. Perfectly formal, rich without a trace of being garish, and altogether untouched. For sure, there were a modest pile of papers stacked on an oak desk, but Damian was no fool and his father had no work; they were nothing more than a decoration, to seem professional to whoever he might convince to see the room. Damian, for one, had not seen anybody of the sort enter nor leave the Manor since his arrival, and from his tree, he’d know. There was only one other door in the room, to the left of the desk, and he made his way there quickly, identifying Grayson and his father’s voices immediately.

“- I can’t allow this to continue, Bruce. You know how this will end up.” Grayson’s tone was rough, unyielding. His mother had told him Dick Grayson was a strong man, but Damian thought he caught the edge of pain in the man’s voice. It wasn’t enough to not express pain, his mother had told him, he had to not feel it – he wasn’t there yet, he’d not become her Alexander, he still had so much to do. 

“It will not come to that. Believe me – the boy is all Talia. I loathe him.” The words didn’t hit Damian as hard as he wished they did, there was just a resounding hum that was something like comfort. Distaste wasn’t unmanageable, it favoured time apart and that suited Damian just fine. “You’re splitting your attention – this isn’t my doing, it’s yours.” 

It wasn’t words Damian’s father was met with, but Grayson did – something. Damian heard him move, but it was short, and Damian’s father grunted as he moved in retaliation. Half a moment passed; Damian pressed close to the frame as if he could discern events through sound alone. A step, a shift, a collision of some kind. A hit? Another step, heavier. A second shift, bigger this time, alongside a sharp breath –

Damian hit the floor hard; years of training robbing him of any reaction bar a soundless gasp as he rolled back into a crouch. Something had slammed into the door – somebody had been slammed. He heard the victim push on the door, leverage himself back into a stand – the low hiss they let out was unmistakably Grayson. 

Despite everything, Damian felt his racing heart slow. If this was the order, if Grayson took that for the younger ones – that was something he could live with, something he could work to his advantage. He barely noticed as he let his teachings take him and found his way to the closest nook to hide in – under the desk, as it went. He didn’t need to know more, but he couldn’t leave if they might be leaving soon enough to catch him in the act. 

As it went, that was the right move. Within seconds the room was opening, and the heavy footsteps of Damian’s father made their way through the study, door slamming as he left. The lighter steps of Grayson soon followed, surprisingly even given what had just happened, but the man didn’t leave so soon. He stopped to the left of the desk. Damian found himself holding his breath and slowing his pulse to a drag. Two sharp knocks on the desk, a pause, and Grayson was walking out of the room. 

At the second thud of the door, Damian allowed himself to sink into the wooden crook, head lolling. That was an answer, that was answer enough – why did the itch remain within him?


	2. Chapter 2

Given the right circumstances, Damian was horrified to discover, Grayson was chatty. Since he’d told Damian he’d been enrolled in Brentwood Academy, the man had been a walking talking pamphlet for the establishment. Damian had been playing his words back on loop since his second lesson had begun, trying desperately to recall why he’d ever gone along with the demand, as he called all the restraint he had to not maim his peers. 

Nearly five hundred students, aged five to eighteen, with most boarding – the boy by his side jabbed him – sixty-two faculty members, most assigned to groups of ten boys, forms that were taught together for their entire school career for improved co-operation and – another jab – long-lasting friendships. Almost all of the excellent student body – if Damian was jabbed one more blasted time – went on to excel at Ivy League Universities and stood as upstanding pillars of their community – that was it! 

Damian’s mother would be disappointed with him. Nothing in his launch carried the grace of an Al-Ghul; it was nothing more than the savagery of a feral animal that pushed him as he tore at the boy’s face. He felt lava swell in his stomach, and a strong sense of betrayal rose through his chest that the child just wasn’t fighting back, there was nothing worth fighting against in the damned weakling. There were yells around him, but nothing quite so loud as his own stubby nails breaking the boy’s white skin. 

There were hands, within minutes, grabbing on Damian’s shoulders and pulling him close; away from his aggressor – victim – and he found he had been one of the people yelling, his voice already hoarse. The lava still hadn’t left him. It was nothing he’d felt before, bubbling and spitting within him, and as he struggled against the arms he found himself wishing he could spit it across the floor. Engulf everyone else, spare himself the burning. 

If he’d been in his right mind, he’d have been able to free himself with ease, but all he wanted to do was push forwards, forwards, forwards, and his slight body was not yet enough to break the grip of an adult man – though his attempt was admirable enough. The second burn that rose within him was a more familiar weight, humiliation. Heat flooded his cheeks as his mind began to race with images of his failure, against somebody so damn petty, and his body began to slump into the grip, letting himself be manoeuvred into a plastic chair. 

The hands moved from his waist to his shoulders, lighter, almost comforting. Words were being thrown about between the teachers surrounding him, and his own mutterings filtered through them, nonsensical at best. Calm down, his mother’s voice snapped at him, you are tarnishing your father’s name and my legacy. Do not be a disappointment. He began to slow his breathing, matching his memory of his meditation lessons – in, out, in... 

A voice cut through the fog, sharp and feminine. “Sugar, I’m going to need you to tell me your name.” His voice was impressively confident as he replied,  
“Damian. Al – no, Wayne. Damian Wayne.” The shift in the room was tangible. The hand on his shoulder became a momentary vice, before pulling away altogether, and the whispers moved from speculatory to harsh, almost grating on his ears in their shrill edge. The woman spoke again, higher and calm in an artificial way Damian wasn’t used to – seemed to be a lot of that going around.   
“Of course, the Wayne boy. Don’t worry – I'm sure this will be no trouble, first offence and all. Let’s get you to reception, see if we can’t get hold of your father.” 

He was led away from the cluster by the woman, sharp nails scraping his shoulders as she walked him away, down a winding set of identical corridors and staircases. His eyes cleared as they went, and he began to recognise the woman as Harleen Quinzel – Doctor Harleen Quinzel, registered school therapist from the pictures Grayson had shown him. What the hell was he doing with a therapist? She was slight and had an air of bitterness he hadn’t noticed in the professional mugshot he’d been shown. 

“Sit there for me, kay plum?” She said, taloned finger pointing to one of the plastic chairs lined against the wall, opposite the door to the principal’s office. He huffed at the nickname but did as she said, and she gave him an off smile before retreating to the room with a knock on the door. 

Alone in the nondescript room, Damian couldn’t help feeling foolish. The only sounds were his own heartbeat and the occasional murmur from the office. He moved into a cross-legged sit. A minute passed. He began to close his eyes. Another minute. He allowed himself to focus on his heartbeat, lessons on meditation recalled naturally. The lava in him had drained out, without his notice, and he felt strangely bloated and empty – cold. He almost wanted it back, at least it hadn’t let him feel stupid for what he’d been doing. 

You have a problem, his mother’s voice told him. Step one, you identify the cause. The jabbing? He wasn’t a child, his gut screamed, he wouldn’t respond like that to such a juvenile provocation, he knew better, his mother had taught him better. He tried to think back to that lava, to what rocks had turned molten within him, what had burned white-hot – the eyes. They’d all been looking at him, all of them. Twenty beady eyes, scouring him like a museum exhibition, they hadn’t stopped. Not respect, not fear - they’d looked at him, and they’d been sorry. Even now, he felt the same rocks heating again, that wouldn’t do. Step two, his mother's voice reminded him. Step two, eliminate the problem.

Grayson walked in like a prince, smooth and confident and with the weight of the world atop him. His glance at Damian was scornful, but he met the Doctor with a charming grin as she left the office to greet him.   
“Mr Wayne, I presume? Thank you so much for meeting me here, I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of an altercation today, involving your Damian. If we could -”  
“I’ll be taking Damian home now if that’s alright with you Doctor Quinzel. Don’t worry, we’ll have him back to you tomorrow, bright and early – ready to make amends with the other boy in this unfortunate spat, I’m sure. Isn’t that right, Damian?” He hissed slightly, a soft tt sound, and Grayson turned his grin back to the woman. Her eyes were dark, and Damian saw her fist clench and relax a few times, but her grin widened.  
“Sure thing Mistah, you two have a nice day now.”

Grayson took Damian’s hand tightly and led him to the car in silence, Damian taking the passenger seat without question as he waited for his ‘brother’ to speak. Grayson didn’t move for a moment, eyes and hand still on the steering wheel, before he gave a deep sigh and let his head fall into the seat. 

“Did he say something, Damian? Was he making fun of you? Did he say something ‘bout your race? Your mum? What... why’d you do that, kid?” Damian huffed, glancing away,  
“I’m not a child Grayson. Don’t think you can demean me just because of how old I happen to be.” His sigh was deeper that time, angrier.   
“You’ve got to give me a reason Damian, now. This cannot be allowed to repeat, I need to know what happened.”  
“You should listen to my father, Grayson – it's not your place to parent me.” Grayson’s eyes snap cold.  
“This really isn’t Bruce’s call right now, Damian, and you are going to have to learn to hold your tongue around him better than you do with me. Tell me what happened – give me a reason to have prevented your expulsion back there, goddammit.” Damian tensed at Grayson raised his voice, and he didn’t respond.

A moment passed, and Grayson’s voice was neutral again as he spoke, “We’re going to get ice cream. We can talk about what’s going on when we’re there. Is that understood?” Damian’s nod was sulky, and he watched the swirls of smog shift as they drove rather than speaking to his ‘brother’. Gotham was a filthy place, only his tree seemed free of the omnipresent mist of grey and dirt. He pictured the swirls of murk being whipped together, how they would cool and thicken, and be scooped into a cone – trying to swallow all the rotten innards of the city seemed preferable to his upcoming discussion with Grayson.

They pulled up to an ice cream parlour in the ‘nice’ part of town, but it was unavoidably a cheap place. Two families sat inside on plastic furniture and the room was bright with tacky posters, Damian’s face morphed into a derisive sneer as he took it in. This was no place for an Al-Ghul or a Wayne. He didn’t answer Grayson when asked what flavour he’d like, so the man bought an elaborate strawberry milkshake for himself and a bowl of vanilla for Damian, sitting them down before they talk. 

Grayson waited until he'd taken a bite of the dessert before he spoke, robbing Damian of the opportunity to interrupt.  
"You’ve shown signs of violence since arrival and given your upbringing, I’ve been letting it go so far but Damian - that was a defenceless boy, and you beat him up without any visible provocation. If that’s true, you’ll need at best extensive anger management lessons and at worst - well. All I need is a reason. Give me a reason Damian, please.” 

The sweet had melted in his mouth and he licked his teeth as he deliberated the taste. Too weak, hardly vanilla flavoured at all.  
“This isn’t acceptable Grayson. Get me chocolate instead.” Damian didn’t startle as Grayson’s fist hit the table, he didn’t, but the expression on the man’s face was cold enough to send a shiver down his spine. It caught the attention of the other customers, four or five sets of nervous eyes scoured for escalation in his tense form. Grayson leaned back in his chair, relaxing his shoulders and setting his sight on his shake. 

He curled the straw between his fingers as he spoke, voice soft and drained.  
“Yeah, will do Damian - just tell me why first.”   
“Tt. You wouldn’t understand.”  
“So, explain it. Worst case scenario, you’re proven right. Best case, I can help you!”  
“What,” Damian scoffed, “the same way you ‘help’ Drake? I don’t think getting pushed around will solve matters here Grayson." Grayson’s face went white, mannerisms shocked but not defensive.  
"Who have you been listening to? Is this - did the kid say something about Bruce?" Damian shifted in his seat; the reaction had not been what he was pushing for. 

Grayson's voice turned sympathetic. "We're in the spotlight Damian, it's unfortunate but people will always be saying things about us - about you too if you give them fodder. If you're not ready for that, we can take you out of school. I could teach you, or we could hire tutors. I just want the best for you."

Damian mulled over Grayson’s words for a second. He was misinformed, but if Damian never had to step into that room again it would be too long.   
"That's not it, Grayson. I knew you wouldn't understand, you never could. Nobody said anything. Nobody ever says anything. Everyone wants to know; nobody is willing to tell. They were all staring at me. They assumed they had the right to - to - to think they could know me. It made me feel… hot. I wanted to hurt that boy. I wanted to break him. I wanted him to look at me in fear, respect, not - I won't be going back, Grayson." His teeth clenched together as he finished, realising with a start his words had grown from a growl to a shout. 

A wrinkle had developed between Grayson’s eyebrows.  
"Heat, like… like anger? You just got angry at him, really? That's not an excuse Damian."   
"That's not anger, you imbecile. Did my father teach you nothing? Anger is the desire to right the wrongs of the world, to shape it to your desires. Anger is the fuel of an Al-Ghul, the pyre upon which they purify the Earth's filth and scum. That was nothing like anger." If anything, Grayson looks more confused and his voice is cloyingly sympathetic.   
"Oh, Damian… That burn? That is anger, I promise, but we don't have to call it that. Not if you don't want us to. It's an emotion though, and it's one that you'll feel again. I'm going to talk to Dr Quinzel about getting you assistance in dealing with it, so stuff like this doesn't happen the next time, but I won't be taking you out of school. You need friends Damian, peers." 

Damian did not want to talk to Dr Quinzel. He did not want to go back to school. He did not want to talk about that lava. But this was all a test, and Grayson was a part of that. Drake was nothing but a placeholder for Damian, but he needed Grayson's respect to progress, and if that meant going along with his suggestion… Damian nodded soberly and Grayson let out a sigh of relief as he smiled slightly, taking the last sip of his milkshake.

Grayson bought Damian a chocolate ice cream, in a cone that time, and it had a refreshing bitter kick to it. They chose not to sit in, amidst all the staring strangers, and instead found a nearby park to eat at, taking their places on a heavy wooden bench as toddlers ran about before them. 

"You haven't left the grounds before today, have you kid? How's Gotham City treating you?" Damian took his time glancing between the cigarette butts plastering the floor, the feverish grey of the sky, and the scarred strays that slunk in and out the shadows of nearby buildings.   
"I think I understand why my mother sent me here. The Al-Ghul's will cleanse the world. This city - it needs me. This must be my challenge. Eradicate the filth here and earn my place." Grayson seems uneasy and he rests his hand on Damian's shoulder, heavy.

"Damian, your mum sent you here to live with Bruce while she's in prison. You don't have a goal, you just need to be - a normal kid, you know?" He doesn't bother replying, rolling his eyes at the obvious lie. 

"Why are you so worried about the pretender's health?"   
"The pretender?"  
"Drake."   
"Tim isn't pretending to be anything, what are you talking about?"  
"It's Father who's pretending, not him - Drake is nothing more than a pathetic stand-in for me, his true blood son. It'd be better if he is ill, save my father the effort of the façade." Grayson looks infuriated, again.   
"Tim is your brother Damian, and he's Bruce's son. If you think blood defines family, you have a lot to learn. He's certainly no burden and you will not be wishing his death again, you hear me?"  
"He is no brother of mine. I can hold my tongue, but he is not my family." Grayson looked away, still fuming. He hadn't answered Damian's question. The itch in his chest called for his attention again.

"Tell me about my father. My mother has always said he's a great man, she never said why. What did he do to earn her love?"   
"Bruce has done a lot over the years. What made Talia Al-Ghul take note is beyond me. I didn't know she had until you turned up."  
"What things has he done?"   
"A lot. What do you plan to do to 'cleanse' the city, exactly?" The diversion was even less subtle. The itch grew.   
"It's as I said, I'm going to eradicate the filth, whatever that entails."  
"How well do you know your mum, Damian? What does a better world mean to you exactly?" Damian scowled.   
"I know her better than you do. We will make a better world, a clean one, and we will lead it."   
"That's the thing about Talia. More you think you know her, bigger your shock when you realize you're wrong." Damian ached to yell at Grayson, to defend his mother, but it's not a reputation she would object to and his mind kept replaying what he'd heard from his father's study. He stayed quiet.

"My mother says you're an admirable athlete. Is that why my father took you in?" Grayson seemed sombre.  
"Yeah, I was good. I was the best. But that's not why Bruce took me in."  
"Why then?" Grayson wiped a streak of chocolate off Damian's chin.  
"Eat the last bit of your ice cream and we'll head back to the car." 

Grayson needed Damian's respect to a degree because that was the order of the Wayne household and he knew that by now, but he didn't try to suppress the festering resentment brewing in the pits of his mind. The man was hiding something from him and if it was worth hiding, it was worth finding. He couldn't be taken at his words but hearing them anyway was sure to be essential in the next step of soothing the itch; figuring out the Manor.


	3. Chapter 3

Damian didn't see his father or Drake that evening. Grayson took their dinner to Damian's room and told him the two would be eating alone, that it was his punishment for his infraction as if he'd be upset that he got to avoid spending time with Drake. As it went, the gnawing distrust with Grayson made his company almost as abominable as the alternative and he was relieved to be left alone once they'd finished the bland soup. He went through his evening exercises thoughtlessly, filling in the school worksheets Grayson had handed him as he used the leg press – far below his level, as expected. With nothing left to do, the sun already set, he went to bed.

  
Was his room always that cold?

  
He'd already collected several duvets from nearby guest rooms, dust-covered antiquated things but heavy and warm, yet they seemed thinner than the silk sheets back home ever had. He wondered if he'd switched off; if his own skin was failing to take in any heat it was offered, but his own hands pressed together were a reassuring warmth in the chill entrapping him. He'd been tossing and turning, scrunching up to bury himself away from the biting air, but he'd damn near given up hope of sleeping when he heard it.

  
The analogue clock on his wall read midnight, he knew the Manor's inhabitants would be asleep by then. None of them could account for the whistle that echoed through the corridor outside Damian's door. Slow, deep. Getting louder. It wasn't warmth he was seeking from his covers as he buried himself in them, slowing his breathing to allow only his heartbeat to interrupt the song. He was still, entirely. No footsteps accompanied the whistle, but it seemed to draw closer in beats as if walking. It was closer. It was outside his door. It had stopped. A beat passed, and the whistle grew a little higher, uneven, almost a chortle and it moved on.

  
He couldn't be sure how many minutes passed as he waited for his heartbeat to settle again, praying the whistler wouldn't turn on its path. Only when the sound was completely gone did it strike him how ridiculous he was being. A trick of the wind, or Grayson taking a late-night walk, only mystified by Damian's sleep-deprived mind and the gloom of the Manor. Here he was, curled like a babe to her mother, all for a stupid hum in the night. Old houses make noises, Grayson had told him, don't let it get to you. Of course, his mother would have been disappointed. Perhaps there were cameras on him; perhaps this would receive a punishment. Could have been an intruder, he should have apprehended them. He still could – he should leave immediately.

  
Damian did leave, pulling a pair of green combat boots atop his cotton pyjama bottoms to spare himself the leeching cold of the stone floors, and found the corridor empty. Lacking any real direction that they could have gone past his corridor , he wandered to the Manor's front door figuring they'd have to leave at some point and if they were willing to whistle, their trespassing skills must be lacking – a front door exit seemed plausible. The sight of the exit was inviting, Damian found himself unable to justify not walking through it . It would be wrong to say it was warmer outside than in, but it was a coolness that felt right, the sort that piling on coats and duvets would solve, and Damian found himself relaxing.

  
He walked to his tree without hurry. There was an ache to his muscles, but it barely even bothered him as he scaled the branches, almost easier than normal. His throne awaited him, safe and homely. He barely even noticed the bark cutting into exposed skin as he curled up, letting the branches shelter him from the wind; face quickly warming as he buried it in his arms. He could hear the leaves dancing to the melodious chatter of the animals who made the night their home, and behind it all he thought he might be able to catch the notes to a lullaby he'd forgotten, sung by a soft voice he might have known.  
Damian woke with a start, the world a good deal quieter in an instant, so the swinging of the door echoed through his sleep. He rolled himself to a crouch, rolling out stiff limbs as he prepared to chase down the presumed intruder. It was almost disappointment he felt when the figure stepped into the pallid moonlight and revealed himself as just being Drake, fully dressed with a bag slung over his shoulders.

  
Was he running away? Good riddance, Damian smirked a little. It'd probably been him earlier too, trying to scare Damian – as if he could ever, that would require a modicum of talent. Drake seemed determined as he scurried towards the gates surrounding the estate, probably to the small pedestrian entrance; they rarely closed it. As he drew closer to the exit, Damian smiled expectantly for the last he'd see of the boy. Only, Drake didn't leave. Had the idiot forgotten how doors worked in the two-minute walk down the driveway? He wouldn't put it past him, but he wasn't doing… anything, really. Standing, watching the road. Was he waiting for a ride?

  
Damian settled back into tree's arms, preparing himself for a long night until Drake left, but hour after hour passed and before he knew it, Damian has fallen asleep again. When he awoke, the gardens were empty. If Damian looked, would Tim be in the Manor? The sun was just rising, but it was late summer, could easily be six, probably was, he had time before school. He shouldn't let anyone know he'd spent the night outside, not if he couldn't guess their reaction. Through the window it was.

  
There was a particular branch of Damian's tree that stretched nearest to the Manor, by a long shot. At it's closest, it was maybe three meters from a window – currently open – that was on the same corridor as Damian's room, with nobody else's rooms between them. If Damian could reach it, he should be able to avoid detection. If not – he knew how to land, a ten-meter fall probably shouldn't be fatal. What could go wrong?

  
He felt strangely vulnerable leaving his nook, the dull ache of his odd sleeping position soaking through his body. He'd worked his way to that branch before, but the twists and knobs of the tree seemed unfamiliar in the dawn sun. He pulled himself up to the nearest branch, standing on it before jumping to a neighbouring branch. He overshot. Damn near reeled off the tree, his arm swinging to grab the trunk and keep him from hitting the ground as leaves he'd batted rained down around him. A sharp pain rocked through the limb; he'd cut his arm on a stray stick in the slip.

  
Focus, his mother's voice told him, if pain is enough to stop you then you'll never be good enough to help me. He ground his teeth. Ignored his torn shirt, the blood dripping into the wood. The next branch, his goal, was right above him. He'd need both hands to grab it. He crouched. For a second, he was flying. He screamed, violent and short, as his arms crashed around their target, splinters grinding into the wound as his weight fell again and he was forced to hold himself. He blinked back tears. One thing at a time. He rocked his legs back and forth – ignore the arm, ignore the arm – and slung his right leg around it, pulling himself to straddle it in a fluid motion, collapsing into the trunk as he released a short breath of relief.

  
He pushed himself into a stand, face stoic, and set his sights on the window. The branch wouldn't be hard to walk across; it was just heavy enough to hold his weight and it didn't seem to thin enough to risk his balance. It was the jump he'd struggle with. His first few steps were tentative, but his assessment seemed accurate. Three meters wasn't too far, not for an adult jumper, but Damian was despairingly small, barely four foot six. Within average range for his age bracket, his mind chirped, but that did no good in his current situation. He had a run-up, there was no option but to use it. He traced back his steps gently and leaned forward.

  
Three, two, one – sprint.

  
From his first step, he realized it was too much force. His perch was going to break, soon. He could make this; had to make this. He was soaring, his feet barely touching the stick, before he took one final push off from it, arms extended to the windowsill below him. The branch let out a sickening crack as he left it, falling away beneath him. His hands reached too high as he began his curve down, and he was forced to position his legs to curl within the window frame as he landed, gripping it from there. His head whipped up, pushing him into a roll through the room to save himself the head collision with the wall outside right as the branch shattered on the floor, the ruckus breaking its way through the Manor.

  
In retrospect, that may have been a tad less subtle than he'd been going for.

  
He spared no time to examine the room he'd entered, hurtling to his own bed, sinking into a faux sleep only seconds before he heard footsteps make their way down his hall. As Grayson threw open his door, Damian put on the image of the sound rousing him from his rest.

  
"S'it school 'gain?" He slurred, almost cringing at the vulnerability he'd laced into the words. Grayson looked relieved to see him and softened against the wall with a faint smile.  
"Yeah Damian, it's early but I thought you'd want time to prepare better for today. You sleep well?"  
"No. T's cold and I hurt m' arm. Din know where to get a plaster." Grayson looked sympathetic and walked forwards to pick up Damian's hand as he offered it forwards.  
"Looks bad. I'll fix you right up, don't worry." He disappeared to the bathroom and came back with what he needed. Removed the debris, dabbed on antiseptic, and wrapped a clean bandage tight. Damian struggled not to sneer at how gentle he was attempting to be; as if he couldn't take such mundane injury.  
"There you go. I'll leave you to get ready now – and Damian?" He glanced at his 'brother' as he got out of his bed, made his way to the shower. "Next time, take off your shoes when you sneak back inside." He smiled gaily as he left, and Damian felt himself flush, his mother's taunts dancing through his head. He sniffed dismissively and finished his walk with his head held high and his spirits low.

  
Once Damian was ready, having pressed out the crinkles of his uniform from the previous day's events, it was only seven. He still had a solid hour to find Drake and do what was necessary to figure out what he'd witnessed, assuming the boy was still there at all and hadn't vanished into the night. He'd never been to Drake's room, but he knew the bedrooms were all on the same floor and that Drake typically went down a South-facing corridor, not far from him. If he was looking to talk to him, there was no point in trying to stealth his way there, a quiet approach would just have Drake more on guard if Damian did need to get there without being heard. That in mind, he blundered down the halls with deliberate carelessness, calling out for Drake when he thought he might be close enough to be heard – no response. Was Drake gone or was he ignoring him?

  
He began swinging each door open as he passed. Impersonal guest rooms and bathrooms, all of them. He almost walked past Drake's room, it seemed so alike every other of it's kind, but no – there, in the middle of the bed, was a slight lump that could only be Drake. He sauntered in casually and took in the lack of dust and closed camera case on the bedside; the only things separating it from complete sameness. Damian had only lived there for a few months, but he'd filled his space already. His art supplies, his books, his training equipment – his space was undoubtedly his. He smirked. Drake knew he was nothing more than a placeholder, that made things easier.

  
"You should have left, spared me the trouble of getting rid of you." Damian kept his voice haughty. Drake didn't respond. "I suppose it makes sense that you'd be too pathetic to go through with it, not like anywhere else will take you." He growled slightly. It was no fun provoking the boy if he didn't even get irritated. He walked to Drake's side quickly and prodded him in the cheek harshly. He groaned slightly, rolling away from Damian's hand, face uncomfortable. "You look even worse than usual, Pretender. Didn't sleep?" His voice took a knowing tilt, condescending. Drake's eyes opened, hazily, but didn't focus on anything. He really did look bad. His entire face seemed to have a coat of sweat, red and feverish, and the smell of sickness hung over him. Damian didn't think as he rose his uninjured palm and slapped Drake, hard.

  
"Damian!" It wasn't Drake's voice that yelled, but his father's. Drake's eyes met Damian's and he gave a woozy smile, moving his hand to touch Damian's face in a weak parody of the hit, slurring something Damian couldn't make out. Damian's father grabbed his wrist and tore him away from his 'brother's' bedside, not holding back his strength.  
"Father, Drake wasn't – "  
"Leave! I will not have you attacking my sons! Go!" He shoved Damian towards the door, enough to make him stumble, and he only barely saw his father move to coo over Drake before the door was slammed behind him.

  
He scrunched his face, huffing, and stomped back and forth, hoping his father would hear each step, hear that he was angry goddammit. He'd done something wrong, that much he was sure of. His father was angry enough to give Drake the attention Damian was owed, so it had to be something bad. He didn't want to be caught outside – he especially didn't want to have to talk to his father or, god-forbid, Grayson. With a last look at the door, he decided he'd be walking to school by himself that day. With nearly an hour remaining, he should have time to find his way. It'd give him the lay of the area, at very least, and an easy escape.

  
Newly determined, he left the Manor and set off on the route he remembered Grayson taking him the day before. For the most part, it was a lot of stretches of country road. Estates lined the way, smaller than their own but hardly modest. He remembered where he had to turn left, Drake Manor. Grayson had told him, eyes downcast, that their Drake came from the family that owned the house. He took the opportunity to take in his 'brother's' family home, it seemed strangely vacant. Far more modern than the Manor, probably early fifties architecture, all glass and smooth white walls. It was lifeless in a way he'd forgotten a building could be. His school was overflowing with people and Wayne Manor gave the distinct impression you were never as alone as you'd like. Drake would likely inherit the building when he came of age in two short years, but the idea of him spending time there left an uneasy feeling in the pits of Damian's stomach.

  
Drake Manor left Damian a little disoriented, and though he made the correct turn, he found he wasn't sure which way Grayson had taken him next. Near identical paths, both leading towards the city. He struggled for a moment, trying to recall the drive, but nothing came to mind. Left, he decided, would be the best option. It felt… uncertain, but hopeful, as he toyed with the direction in his mind.

  
It became clear Damian had made the wrong choice. He'd made it to the city, but the silhouette was all wrong. He certainly hadn't seen any of the businesses nor residencies he was surrounded by before, and a stream of adults making their way to work seemed to strip him of any bearings he had as to where in the city he could be. He no longer had the time to backtrack to make it to the right path – he'd gone down the left, it seemed reasonable to assume he could return to the track by going right. The city streets were sliced with alleyways, it shouldn't be too difficult.

  
As it went, making his way through the indistinguishable streets hidden between suffocating buildings made it very hard for Damian to notice as he moved from the 'good' to the 'bad' part of town. It'd quickly become a labyrinth and darting between the damp paths – occasionally straying from clusters of men who loitered and leered as he passed - just drew him further into the fold. He wasn't sure how to return to the main roads, and the time the Academy began had just passed when he realized he was being followed.

  
A group of boys. Older than him, not yet adults. Making no real attempts to hide, so they were confident. They were staying behind him, waiting until he turned each corner before following on, but they bobbed and weaved into view right before he lost sight each turn. He couldn't be sure how many there were. Would evasion or attack be better? He wanted to fight, he really wanted to show them who they were up against, but his mother's voice told him he couldn't be foolish, if he had a chance for intel beforehand then he should take it. He continued moving for a minute or two until he noticed an electrical cabinet to the corner of a lane – decent hiding spot. He didn't speed up, let them think he hadn't noticed them, and ducked behind it, holding his phone camera to peer back at them, hopefully without drawing attention. Seventeen guys, none visibly armed, all marked with a face tattoo that implied being young recruits of a local gang. Damian smiled; this should be a good one.

  
He revealed himself with a swagger, not bothering with the façade of naivete they were expecting. They moved to form a lazy semicircle around him, jibing each other in small groups for a second before the leader of the team took a step forward.  
"Look at that, fellas, an academy kid. You lost, ya little fuck?"  
"You think you can talk to me like that?" Damian scoffed, "I am a Wayne, you would do well to respect me." The boy snorted, and a couple of his subordinates outright laughed.  
"Yeah sure," Said a tall one to Damian's left, "Cause it's brown boys with green eyes the Wayne takes. You crazy or just think a ghost story can scare us off?" The leader rolled his eyes,  
"Give it up kid. You gonna give us your money or we gonna take it?" Damian doesn't answer, drawing himself into an attack stance, "Wrong answer. Get 'im guys."

  
He went for the leader first, sprinting forwards the few steps before pouncing, using his head as a springboard for a spin, kicking the guy back and forth in quick succession so he fell, Damian landing on his back soon after. The others all seemed startled, a few scattering immediately, but the rest all charged Damian together. He grabbed the heads of the nearest two, shoving them together to block the punch of a third before letting them fall atop their leader, and he headbutted the puncher, using three well placed strikes as he reeled back to knock him out. He ducked beneath an incoming punch, using a leg swipe to down the attacker and another boy, which made them both stumble into a run, away from the action. Ten down, score.

  
The remaining boys seemed split between two distinct groups, all gangmates but clearly used to working in smaller units. One group seemed led by the tall boy, the other seemed without clear direction. His paused for a moment, trying to decide which to target first when the tall boy and his two followers pulled long knives from their pockets.  
"Dude," yelped one of the others, "That's a kid – you can't just kill 'im."  
"Screw that," the tall one said, "Fucker just took out half our boys – I ain't letting him go." The four looked cowed and scarpered. That solved one problem at least. He wished he'd bought his own weapons, but his mother hadn't left any with him so he could only assume going without was part of his challenge. Would disarming and using one of their's break the rules? Best not risk it, he could handle three idiots who hid behind blades.

  
The guy to the right of the pack had left his side exposed, and Damian whipped around him, lowering himself and grabbing his torso, dragging his foot to the guys right so he could send him toppling into the guy on the left, the second's knife driving into his own arm as he attempted to turn to face Damian and his collapsing friend diverted his arms motion, sending them both to the ground in front of the tall guy, blood pooling around them. The stabbing victim was whimpering, pathetic, and his leader looked furious. His lunge was reckless and ill-aimed, but he was strong, and Damian was thrown back when he hit, saving his landing with a roll backwards. The boy was fast, Damian should have dodged.

  
The guy ran forwards again, and Damian waited until he was close to jump. He latched onto the boy's hair, legs around his neck, injured arm stinging furiously, and veered his entire weight into the wall. He managed to grab a hold on a window frame and twisted his legs, smashing the guy's head into the bricks. He fell hard and the distance meant Damian's head slammed into the concrete floor as he landed, mind-splitting pain ripping through him. The ringing in his ear was enough to muffle him to the sound of the initial leader staggering up from beneath his cohorts, grabbing a piece of wood from the floor, and raising it above his unprotected body. The whistle as it swung swayed Damian's eyes, just in time to see a muscled arm in blue stop the wood's arc.

  
The leader looked as shocked as Damian felt.

  
"You're – ain't you on our payroll? That kid – he's a fucking demon, you gotta get 'im ya pig!" Kid? He sounded like more of a child than Damian had ever felt, slurring and sobbing as he was.  
"I ain't got a death wish – don't ya read the papers? That's the new Wayne kid." The boy went pale.  
"Holy shit – he wasn't lying? I swear, we weren't doin' nothing wrong – I din know he was one of 'em." The officer eyes strayed to Damian, nervous.  
"You want a lift somewhere son? Let's talk, we don't need to tell anyone bout this, right? You know how boys are, these ain't a bad lot, your daddy don't need to know, I swear." Damian assessed the man with thinly veiled disgust.  
"You expect me to lie to my father to protect a group of fools who thought to attack me and a corrupt policeman who only chose to help me to save his own back? It's a wonder my mother didn't burn down this wretched city herself. You will take me to Wayne Manor, and you will deal with the consequences of crossing a Wayne."

  
The drive was silent and tense and Damian kept his face in a stoic scowl the entirety of the journey. They drew up outside the Manor gates, and Damian entered through the pedestrian gate. He felt the officer stare at him as he reached the door and knocked. A beat passed, and Damian's father opened it. If he'd been angry earlier, he was livid by that point, but he let Damian in soundlessly and closed the door behind him.  
"Father, I was attacked – "  
"Save it, Damian. From now on, you will not be leaving this building unless taken by me or Dick. You will not talk to Tim unless he chooses to talk to you and under no circumstances will you raise a hand to anybody. Do I make myself understood?" Damian's words fell on his tongue and he nodded.  
"Yes, father."

  
"Good, I trust we will not have to have this conversation again." His father stalked into the shadows without another word and Damian stood dumbfounded where he'd been left.

  
"Damian? I've been looking all over for you kid. You're late, you need to get your butt to school. Get in the car, I'll take you there." Grayson's voice came from the other direction and Damian took a moment to ponder telling him. "Your uniform – you ruined it you little punk. Go upstairs and iron it, I'll get you in for second lesson, you'll have to ask what work you missed. Never make it easy, do you?" Damian lowered his head.

  
"Okay, Grayson. I can do easy. Take me to school."


	4. Chapter 4

The most intimidating man Damian knew would always be his grandfather. As he stood in his mind, it was hardly even accurate to call Ra’s a person. The Demon’s Head was a monster and a god. Given that, he could see why he’d taken Damian’s father as being worthy of parenting his flesh and blood. He could almost taste it in the room; his father’s blood carried that same something that allowed Ra’s his greatness, that something that would not allow either man to ever settle for normal. His mother’s voice told him that was the spark he still needed to earn, to deserve the attention she gave him. A small, rebellious part of him wondered if that was something he could ever learn – something he wanted at all.

When he entered the Manor, Damian’s father had told him he could feel free to come speak to him should he need anything. That was, in no uncertain terms, a bald-faced lie, and nobody seemed under any delusions about that. Had it been anybody else, Damian would have called it out – he was an Al-Ghul and would not suffer niceties – but that was his father, and moreover, that was Bruce Wayne, and he allowed it to pass with nothing more than a growl. That was a weakness he should never have had and rectifying it was a top priority. He stood before his father’s desk – the same he’d crawled under several weeks previously – and matched the man’s glare in silence as minutes piled up. 

“Damian. Dick tells me you’ve been settling in well.” Damian let out a minute smile at his victory but quickly schooled himself into a more neutral look.  
“Yes, father. The Manor is adequate, and I’ve outpaced all the professors at school, in knowledge and competency. I’m more than ready for you to begin training me.” Damian's heart skipped a beat, and he thought he may have misspoken as his father’s brow burrowed heavily, his head dipping and plunging into shadow.   
“Dick has been sending you to school.”  
“Yes, father. Brentwood Academy. It is beneath me.”   
“Brentwood… Tim’s school. Dick has been sending you to Tim’s school.” 

Damian felt a profound unease swelter within him. There seemed something fundamentally wrong with the idea his father was not aware of the goings-on within his own house. Damian had been leaving and returning like clockwork since the academic year had begun and Drake – Drake hadn’t left Manor grounds since Damian had arrived, let alone accompanied him to school. Back home, his Mother’s attention had been a reward he’d rarely garnered, but he had known without a doubt she was aware of his location, always. Something of his thoughts must have shone through his stoic veneer because his father pushed on.   
“I was under the impression you were helping Dick run his errands.” His face was cold enough to send a chill through Damian’s spine, and his eyes snapped to the door for a second, a low ache of pain rising through him as he remembered what he’d witnessed. “You will not be returning to school. I will not be training you. From now on, you will have me notified every time you leave this building, with exact details on where you’re going and when you will return. I will not be lied to again. Do I make myself clear?”

Damian thought he might see a flick of green in his father’s eye and wondered if it was his own irises’ reflection or a lost droplet from the Lazarus Pits of his home. 

He left the room in a mock tantrum, slamming the door behind him and being sure to throw his weight into each step, but there was no lava in his tummy; closer to a metal brick left in the ice and pressed against warm skin. The doorknob was cold. He didn’t want to stay in the Manor, he didn’t want to let that frost linger on him. He wanted the warmth of the tree, but he couldn’t be sure if that fell under the definition of leaving the Manor and the idea of talking to his father again to – an alternative. Grayson. The man was angry and untrustworthy, but something about him ran hot. Damian could take that heat, his ‘brother’s’ company would help, whether it burned him up in the process or not.

Heart set, he went about searching for Grayson. His bedroom was empty, filthy and homely but ultimately not in use for the second, and there was no sign of him in the main kitchens, dining halls, or gyms – which basically drew a close to the rooms Damian knew, assuming Grayson hadn’t taken to hiding amidst the laundry or in Damian’s own room without his knowledge. He was half thinking about giving up, relaxing in his tree without regard to his father’s warnings, when a sound drew his attention: the faint murmur of a television. If he was being honest, he wasn’t aware the Manor had any sort of signal at all. Curiosity piqued, he followed the noise, vaguely hoping it was Grayson awaiting him. As if fate could be so kind.

“Drake,” he scowled at the inky black mop of hair poking out from the cocoon of blankets on the sprawling sofa. “Why am I not surprised you indulge in such trivial pastimes?” Drake stirred at his words, red-ringed eyes opening sluggishly and fixing to Damian with little urgency. He didn’t seem quite as ill as he had when Damian had been barred from spending time with him, but the stench of sickness still hung over the room, and his skin felt greasy just standing there.   
“Why am I not surprised you’re as backwards about tv as you are about bloodlines, you brother-stealing twerp?”  
“Tt. Being surprised takes a brain, it’s no wonder you can’t manage it, pretender.”  
“Go sell your little insults somewhere else, I’m not buying.” Damian scoffed, and took a place on the sofa next to him, grabbing the remote and flicking off the device. He didn’t want to spend time with Drake, but he was not making progress in finding Grayson and the idea of being alone – well, Drake needed observing, it wouldn’t do to have him plotting behind Damian’s back. 

“C’mon Damian, it’s the world championships! I was watching that, switch it back on.” Damian cocked an eyebrow.  
“You like football?” Drake snorted.  
“Not football, skateboarding. It’s the coolest – bet you suck at it.” Damian shifted.  
“Tt, I will have you know I am a capable athlete in every worthwhile form of exercise –“, Drake snorted.  
“You really do then? Here I was thinking the son of Talia Al-Ghul could do anything, guess Mummy’s lessons didn’t cover anything short of world domination, huh?”  
“Inexperience is temporary, lack of talent is incurable. Show me how to skateboard and I’ll surpass you in no time, just like I did all my tutors.” Drake had the audacity to laugh, voice weak.  
“Sure thing, kid. Soon as I’m well I’ll take you on the ramps Bruce made me and you can give it a shot.” 

While Damian had been listening to him talk, he’d taken the remote back from where his grip had loosened, and he punctuated his sentence with switching the event back on. He shoved his ‘brother’ harshly, toppling him, still cocooned in his blankets, and Damian made a lunge for the controller, biting his arm sharply as he tried to hold it out his grasp. He smiled as he caught it again, ignoring the hiss of ‘Kermit’ as he switched it off, took the batteries out, and threw them and the shell in opposite directions. Drake shoved him back, half-hearted at best, and allowed the silence to resettle.

“You don’t have to stay here, Damian.” Drake sounded worn out, tired. “We both know your mum isn’t going to prison. I don’t know why you’re here, but you don’t have to stay. Me and Dick – we’re enough for Bruce. He doesn’t need you too.” Damian bristled, lava raising for a second time. Slower, but hotter.  
“Do not think you have the right to talk about me, you are nothing more than a placeholder for the true blood son. Now I have arrived, you are redundant. I will run you through with a sword if you question me again.” Drake’s eyes sharpened, resigned and suspicious at once. Drake could scare a lesser man with those eyes if he wanted.  
“You don’t deserve Bruce,”

Damian sucked his cheeks in. He did not notice how similar Drake’s tone was to his father’s at that moment. He did not have the dull throb of tears behind his eyes. He did not wish he could have avoided whatever misstep set Drake against him in an instant. What he did do was scowl, voice hardly wavering, and growl,  
“My father deserves more than you could ever give him.” Drake looked taken aback, perhaps guilty, and Damian felt even angrier at the thought. Only remembering what he’d promised Grayson kept him from tearing the boy to shreds. 

“That was… out of line. I only meant, surely you miss your mum? I miss mine, sometimes. I know Dick missed his a ton. Even Bruce – well, you gotta have more of a life with her than you do here?”  
“My mother told me I was to learn everything I could from my father. I will not leave before I’ve done that and you will not stand in my way.” Drake nodded slightly, face suddenly alighting.  
“There’s a lot you could learn from Bruce, he’s a hero you know? Cleverest man you ever met, and shrewd enough that you’d never realize. He’s taught me so much, but I’d love for him to –“A bit of light faded from his expression. “I’m sure your mum has afforded you the best tutors though. Don’t worry about Bruce, leave him be, let me and Dick teach you. Or – just me, yeah, I’ll show you everything Bruce would. Maybe just... stay away from Dick and Bruce.”  
“Tt. You are far from my father’s level Drake; you couldn’t teach a babe to sit up without breaking your own back. Your attempts to hoard their attention is pitiful at best.” He shook his head.  
“Damian, I don’t want him to –“ Drake’s face crinkled, going white as he hissed audibly. 

Damian found his arms moving to catch his ‘brother’ as he slumped, features relaxing. He stood quickly, shifting him to a reclining position, and watched in silence as twenty seconds passed with no response. His mind raced. Had he been poisoned? Drugged? He was preparing to make further checks on his health when the boy’s eyes reopened, weary and disoriented.   
“Timothy? Are you fully conscious?” His face bobbed around, eventually making eye contact and nodding.   
“Sorry kid,” he slurred, “I dun feel so good.” His heartbeat was slow, but not becoming more so, it was likely he was just more ill than he’d let on. He scoffed, it would not to for a member of his father’s household to remain so vulnerable, pretender or not. His father had a reputation to keep, his mother’s voice told him, weakness was unacceptable. 

Thought in mind, neither spoke as Damian pulled Timothy from the blankets and offered his arm to support him. They walked to his room in silence bar the occasional hiss or low groan from Damian’s ‘brother’, and he left him on his bed (room no more lived-in than it had been before) as he went to find the equipment for dealing with the fever it became apparent he was running. The halls felt colder alone, and he found himself pacing more than he’d like. 

Damian had been taught medicine, modern and traditional, by world-class doctors. There was a focus on first aid generally, but his skills were hardly limited. For a fever though, all he could really do was keep Timothy cool, hydrated, and rested until it broke – and most importantly, be his eyes and keep him safe while he couldn’t do it himself. A part of him considered leaving him, allowing the pretender to be disposed of without even needing Damian’s intervention. His mother’s voice reminded him he’d never be accepted by his father if there was blood on his hands. Standing vigil over him was the only option left.

It took several boring hours, keeping Timothy drinking every so often and padding the cloth on his head as they stayed in silence, but eventually, the fever did break. He resigned himself to standing guard in the room overnight, his ‘brother’ was still far too weak to watch out for himself, but the bulk of his duty was over. He had no more reason to be concerned. Not that he had been, of course, but being relieved of the burden was nice. The boy looked surprised to see him.

“Bruce din wan’ to see me?” He asked; voice shrouded in hurt. Damian scoffed.  
“Father has more important things to do than stay at your bedside, vermin. I wouldn’t ask him to.”  
“You looked after me, Dam’an?”   
“Tt, I could hardly let my father’s property break. Besides, as his heir, it will all be mine one day. No point wasting potential resources. If my father wishes to dispose of you, it will be at his discretion. You will not ruin that for me, understand?” Timothy smiled.  
“I get it, Damian. Us kids, we gotta stick together, you know?”  
“Do not think you can act familiar with me.”   
“Course not,” Timothy huffed slightly and batted Damian’s hand from where it had held the cloth in place on his forehead, “Heaven forbid an Al-Ghul shows their emotions.”  
“You are not forgiven for your slander about my father. I will learn from him and I will surpass you – do not doubt that.” His nose scrunched.   
“Slander? Wha’ d’ I say?”   
“Tt. Do not play me for a fool, you tried to dissuade me from learning from my father and Grayson, too jealous of my position as the favoured son. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Timothy did not answer. At a check, Timothy had fallen asleep. Damian sighed and settled against the wall for a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, Tim is my favourite Robin but I find writing him hellish. Also why it's so short. Damian never tried to murder Tim here, or displace him so literally, so their relationship is a lot better, if still very flawed. I don't want to bash any characters in this story, but his brothers are complex people with their own baggage who won't always say and do the right thing. I hope I conveyed that? Next chapter we get some bonding with Dick, but in chapter six the supernatural elements should begin to ramp up, hope you're as excited as I am. Please let me know what you think, I'm not always sure how to reply but I love comments!


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